What Friends Are For
by Eileen
Summary: Aziraphale has inexplicably caught himself a nasty cold, and Crowley is stuck taking care of him.


The worst part of this whole miserable experience, Aziraphale reflected, was running out of clean handkerchiefs. In three days, he had gone through his entire supply, and he was much too tired and weak to do the laundry. All he could do was lie in bed, sniffle incessantly, and try to find a clean spot on his last one remaining, before he would have to resort to wiping his nose on the bed sheets.

He sighed in frustration, which set off a lengthy coughing fit. That was almost worse than the lack of a handkerchief.

"That doesn't sound good," said a voice from the bedroom doorway.

Aziraphale looked up. "What are you doing here?"

"I phoned," said Crowley. "Six times. When I kept getting the message, I decided to pop by and see if you were all right."

He took off his sunglasses and peered at the angel's red nose and watery eyes. "Are you . . . ill?"

Aziraphale gave him a look which suggested that this could very well be the stupidest question ever asked in the history of the world.

"Right. Well . . . how? I mean, you're an angel! You're not supposed to get ill! What is it, a curse?"

"I have no idea," Aziraphale moaned.

"Did you try to . . . you know . . ." Crowley waved a hand vaguely in the air. "Miracle it away?"

"That was the **first **thing I tried!" The angel sat up against the elaborately carved headboard. "It didn't work. I can't heal my own body when I'm in this condition."

"Mind if I have a go?"

"You?" Aziraphale looked confused. "Heal me?"

"I think I can remember how to do it. Been a while."

"Are you **allowed **to, um . . . help me?"

Crowley grinned and slipped his sunglasses back on. "Well, we just won't tell anyone, will we?"

The demon put his hands on either side of Aziraphale's head and concentrated. It certainly had been a while-more than six thousand years, in fact. And while he had been an angel, before the Fall, and had been quite good at healing, there was no question that he was, well, a bit rusty.

He was using muscles he hadn't used in millennia, and it wasn't coming right away. Metaphorically, he dug in his heels and gave it his all.

"Nnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhh!" he grunted, putting all of his might into the attempt.

"What are you doing?" Aziraphale inquired.

"Ssh!" Crowley summoned up every bit of his demonic energy and channeled it into the attempted healing. It left him feeling a bit drained. He let it all flow through him, and when it was all gone, he pulled up the chair from across the room (after first setting aside a dozen or so books that were stacked on its seat) and waited to see the results.

"Is that it?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nodded. "D'you feel any different yet?"

"No. Well, wait . . . I feel something . . ." Something seemed to be happening to the angel. He was breathing heavily, a strange look on his face . . .

"HhhhhhCHOOOOOOO!" He wiped his nose on the last clean spot and looked up guiltily. "Oh, dear . . ."

"Well, I tried," Crowley shrugged. "Looks like we'll have to do this the hard way."

"We? Are you staying, then?"

"Do you want me to?"

"I don't want to keep you from anything . . ."

"Don't worry 'bout that. You just lie back and get better."

"How did you get in, anyway?"

"Back door."

"I think not! The back door is always locked!"

The demon grinned that damn grin again. "It was. I just thought, where would someone like you keep a spare key?" He brought his hand up, the key in question dangling from his index finger. "And there it was."

"You put that back where you found it!"

"I will, I will. For now I'll just, erm, hold onto it. For safekeeping. And because I may need to go out and get a few things."

"You really don't need to look after me-"

"Well, you can't very well look after yourself when you're in this sort of state, can you? Now what can I get you?"

Aziraphale thought about it. Aside from a clean handkerchief, there was only one thing he wanted. "Cup of tea?"

Crowley nodded. "Cup of tea coming right up. You stay here, I'll take care of it. Be right back, angel."

Aziraphale settled back and tried to relax. It would be all right. He wasn't alone now. If he could manage to clear his nose enough to breathe lying down, he might even have a bit of a snooze. Angels didn't sleep, normally, but since angels weren't supposed to get ill either (and just how **had **it happened, anyway?), it would all be all right.

Just as he closed his eyes, there was a series of thumps and bumps from the kitchen.

"Crowley? What are you doing?" he called, but he couldn't raise his voice enough to be heard over the ongoing noises. Then all of a sudden, there was a horrible crash, and then the demon shouted, "Oh, bugger!"

Well, that was it. He'd have to get up now to find out what was going on. He slid the covers back and reached for his dressing gown, wrapping it tightly around himself. Stepping into his slippers, he padded into the kitchen to find the demon in the middle of what appeared to be the fragments of the entire china cabinet.

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. "What on **Earth **are you doing?" he demanded, when he finally found his voice.

"Trying to find the bloody tea!" Crowley exclaimed, digging through the pile of broken cups to find his miraculously unbroken sunglasses.

"In the cabinet," said the angel patiently, "above the stove."

"Well, how was I supposed to know that?"

"You could have asked."

"I-" Crowley broke off as he realized that his friend was right. He could have asked, but the thought had never occurred to him. "I didn't want to bother you," he finished.

"My poor kitchen!"

"I'll clear it all up! Go on back to bed, love. I'll get this."

Aziraphale bent down to pick up a piece of his angel-winged cup (his favorite), and Crowley snapped, "Leave it, I said! I'll take care of it!"

"Well . . . all right."

"It'll all be back the way it was, I promise. Now shoo!"

The angel took the hint and padded back to the bedroom. Crowley filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and then set to work repairing every single cup, bowl, and glass. The myriad fragments scattered all over the floor rose up and miraculously reassembled themselves, then floated back into the cabinet good as new. There wasn't even a chip or a crack on a single one.

The last one to come together was Aziraphale's favorite angel cup. Crowley plucked it out of the air and set it on the counter. There wasn't much else to do till the kettle boiled. The angel was a meticulous housekeeper; not a crumb nor a stain marred the perfect faux-marble, and the floors were so clean that he could have eaten off them, if he so desired. He sat down in the comfortably worn kitchen chair and waited for the kettle.

* * *

It was no good. He couldn't even focus on the page anymore.

Aziraphale groaned and set the book aside, making sure to mark his place. His head was aching so badly now that the words swam before his eyes.

Well, this wouldn't do. Here he was, stuck in bed, unable to heal himself or even to breathe properly, and now he couldn't even read to pass the time! It just wasn't fair!

"Your tea," Crowley said, bringing in a tray with two cups on it. Then he saw Aziraphale's expression. "What's wrong, angel?"

"Oh, it's awful! My head . . . I can't even read properly now! Why? Why is this happening to me?"

The demon patted him on the shoulder. "Buck up, old man. This too shall pass. Drink your tea."

"What am I going to do?"

Crowley shrugged. "Sleep. Do you a world of good."

"But I'm not used to sleeping! It's . . . such a waste of time!"

"You could do with the rest."

"I've been doing nothing **but **resting for three days! Not that it's been very restful. I can't even breathe properly!"

Crowley sighed. He waited until the angel had drained the last drops from his mug, and then he reached out and pressed two fingers against Aziraphale's forehead.

The angel's eyes closed immediately, and his agitated, wheezy breathing evened out and deepened. Crowley waited a few minutes to make sure his friend was really asleep, and then he adjourned to the flat's sitting room.

"Now let's see if there's anything good on . . ." He flopped down on the sofa and only then did he realize that there wasn't a television in the room. Only endless stacks of books. While Crowley had nothing against the written word, it wasn't his favorite way to spend an evening.

"Just need to make a few adjustments here."

* * *

A sudden, lengthy coughing fit awoke Aziraphale out of a sound sleep. It took him a moment to catch his breath, and when he did, he heard voices on the other side of the door.

What was happening now? Had Crowley invited a few friends over for drinks? No, wait-Crowley didn't **have **any other friends. He got up, donned dressing gown and slippers, and went out to find his infernal companion sitting on the sofa in mid-binge watch.

"Where," he asked, "did the television come from?"

Crowley glanced up. "My place. I was bored. Don't worry, I'll bring it back with me when I go."

"What are you watching?"

"_Doctor Who_. Care to join me?"

"Really? It's been a while since we watched _Who _together." Aziraphale came around and sat at the other end of the sofa, snatching the tartan blanket off the back and wrapping it around himself. "Nineteen seventy-three, wasn't it?"

"Seventy-four. Bank holiday weekend. Now shush." The demon took one of the pillows from his end of the sofa and tucked it in behind the angel's head and shoulders.

They sat like that for quite a while, not speaking, not even looking at each other. Then Aziraphale asked, "Who's that woman?"

"Hmm? Oh, that's the Doctor."

"That's not the Doctor! The Doctor's a man!"

"Not anymore," Crowley said, that infuriating grin on his lips again.

"Well, when did this happen?"

"Recently."

"What happened to the young chap in the hat and the scarf? I quite liked him."

"That was ages ago! He's long gone. Probably dead by now."

"Oh, I hope not! He was lovely!"

"Ssh! I'm watching this."

Aziraphale took the hint and watched in silence, though he wasn't really sure what was going on. His head was still aching rather badly, even after his enforced nap, and his nose was starting to clog up again, which necessitated him breathing through his mouth, which made his throat dry and painful. If there was a lesson here, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be learning.

"Oh, he's alive," Crowley spoke up suddenly.

"What? Who?"

"Tom Baker. The fourth Doctor. The one in the hat and the scarf. He's still alive." The demon poked at his mobile phone screen, then shut the device off.

"Oh. That's a relief, then. Thank you for looking that up."

"You should get yourself a mobile. They're ever so useful. You can even," Crowley said, leaning in closer, "read **books **on them."

Aziraphale was appalled. "Words on a screen? Never!"

"Reading's reading. It's all the same."

"It is **not**!" the angel replied hoarsely. "What about the smell of the binding, the texture of the pages? The whole experience?"

"You'll still have your old books. They're not going away. I just think you should . . . broaden your horizons a bit, that's all." He glanced over at the television just as the show's ending credits began rolling. "Oh, is that the end? I missed it."

"There'll be more, dear. We'll watch it another time." He sneezed five times, and suddenly found a box of tissues in his lap.

"Those should do," said Crowley, "until I can get you some proper handkerchiefs. I've, um, got to go back to my place for a bit. Pick up the mail, yell at the plants, that sort of thing. I'll see if I can get you some soup."

"I'm not really very hungry right now . . ."

"You should eat something. Stay put. I'll be back soon." He tucked the back door key into his pocket and sauntered out the door.

* * *

There was a homeless man sitting on the pavement in front of the bookshop. Crowley hated homeless people: they always asked for money, and shouted abuse at him when he didn't give them any. The man's almost visible stench and the way he scratched his matted hair as if picking for nits didn't help matters any.

Crowley was almost by him when the man spoke. "Is 'e all right, then?"

"What?" He turned back. "Are you speaking to me?"

"Ah said, is 'e all right?"

"Who?" Even from here, Crowley could see . . . things . . . moving in the depths of the man's stained clothing.

"Mr. Fell. Ah know yer 'is friend." He leered in a way that suggested that "friend" was an understatement.

"That's none of your business. Now push off."

"Haven't seen him f'r a couple days. He all right?"

"Oh." The note of concern in the foul man's voice took Crowley by surprise. "No, um, he's a bit ill at the moment. Just a cold, fortunately."

"He's always good to me," the man said, with a pointed glance toward the tattered paper cup in front of him.

Bless it. Crowley hadn't planned on giving anything to the man, but all that went through his head was _What would Aziraphale say? _Grumbling under his breath, he pulled out his wallet and tossed a random note into the cup.

"A tenner? Bless you, sir!"

"Yeah, well, bless you, too, you filthy bastard," Crowley muttered, and got into his car.

* * *

Aziraphale was still in the same spot when Crowley returned four hours later. The television was off, but the angel's eyes were still open. Even so, Crowley wasn't completely sure that he wasn't asleep. He tried to tiptoe by and heard, "What kind of soup did you get?"

"Are you awake?"

"Of course I'm awake!" The angel coughed as if to prove his point.

"Why are you just sitting here, then?"

"The noise of the . . . the-" Aziraphale inclined his head toward the television. "It was hurting my head, so I turned it off. That was all right, wasn't it?"

"Yes, yes, it's fine. Do you want to sit out here, or go into the bedroom?"

"I'm fine here. Don't want to move."

"All right. I'll go heat up the soup. It's chicken noodle."

"From a can?"

"You know I don't cook. Heating a can of soup, I can just about manage. I'll be back soon, angel."

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a short while later with a steaming bowl of soup on a plastic tray.

"Did you remember the crackers?" Aziraphale asked, as he sat upright and settled the tray on his lap.

"Crackers . . . ooh," Crowley hissed. "Sorry, I forgot."

"There's always something, isn't there? I hope you at least found some decent handkerchiefs."

"Do you know how many shops I had to go to before I finally found them?" the demon grumbled. "It's not like the old days, when a chap wouldn't step out of doors without a pocket handkerchief. I finally found some in a charity shop. Six packages; I bought the lot."

"How many in each package?" The angel took an experimental slurp of the soup and found it quite delicious.

"I don't know. Three? Four? I'll, um, clean the other ones for you."

"Don't rush, dear. Sit down. Have a drink." Aziraphale waved his free hand at the overstuffed armchair. Crowley looked at it, sighed, and dropped into its seat, leaning back against the upholstery.

"There's some old tramp outside the shop," he said, "begging for money."

The angel smiled. "Oh, that's just Peter. Don't mind him, he's harmless."

"His smell isn't. Almost knocked me over."

"It is our duty," Aziraphale said sternly, "to help the less fortunate."

"You're never gonna get rid of him, then."

"Did you give him anything?"

"A tenner."

"Really? I usually only give him five. Of course, I see him more often . . ."

Crowley nodded and made some noncommittal grunt. The angel spooned up some more of his soup. At least he wasn't slurping now, Crowley reflected gratefully.

"How's your head?" he asked.

"Better. A bit. I think."

"Enough to read your book? I'll go and fetch it, if you like."

"Oh, I never read when I eat. After."

"Too worried about spills?"

Aziraphale paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth and gave his companion a sharp look. "I'll have you know that I take good care of my books, no matter how old or valuable they are. A paperback from the pound shop is no less deserving of respect than a fourteenth-century manuscript."

"I thought you liked a book with a little wear and tear. Shows it's been loved."

"Normal wear and tear is all right. Carelessness should not and will not be tolerated."

"Fine. Eat your soup before it cools."

The problem came when Crowley went to fetch the book that his friend had been reading, only to find a stack of five books beside the bed. All of them had bookmarks at various places within their covers.

"Which one is it?" he called out.

The reply was too faint for him to make out.

"What?"

"I **said**, the-" And then the angel was interrupted by a fierce spasm of coughing that left him quite breathless for a moment. When he had recovered somewhat, he tried to answer, but all that could be produced was a faint squeak that was barely audible to his own ears, let alone in the next room.

"You all right?" Crowley came running and found Aziraphale leaning back in the chair and clutching his throat. "What happened?"

The angel gave him a scathing look, and then mimed writing.

"What, can't you talk?"

This look could have flayed him alive. Crowley wished he could bottle it, and then send it Down Below. Might eliminate a few of his enemies.

"All right, fine. Here." He found a note pad for a shopping list (which was odd, because Aziraphale didn't cook either) on a table, and a pen in a random drawer. After testing the pen to make sure it worked, he handed both over.

Aziraphale sat up straight, wiped his nose with one of his new handkerchiefs, and then wrote: VOICE IS GONE. THROAT HURTS. MIGHT NEED MEDICINE.

"Does it work on our kind?"

ONE WAY TO FIND OUT. GO. I'LL HAVE THE SOUP FINISHED BY THE TIME YOU GET BACK.

"D'you want your book? I just didn't know which one you wanted."

BRING THEM ALL.

"Bit ambitious, don't you think?"

The angel underlined BRING THEM. Twice.

"All right, all right! Fine!" Crowley ducked into the bedroom and scooped up the entire bedside stack, carrying them into the sitting room and laying them out on the sofa beside Aziraphale. "There you go. Off to get medicine now. Hope it doesn't kill you."

The angel looked worried. DO YOU THINK IT MIGHT?

"No, no, don't worry. Be right back." He checked that the key was still in his pocket before he sauntered out the door.

Peter was still in his place on the pavement in front of the shop. When he saw Crowley, he brightened up. "Good day to you, sir! Off home, are you?"

"No. To the shops. Need to get some medicine." He didn't know why he was explaining himself to this bum, but the words just tumbled out of his mouth. "He's taken a turn for the worse. Can't talk, now."

"Really? That's a shame, that. Give him my best wishes, will you?"

"Sure, whatever." He tried to sidestep, but suddenly the man's collection cup was in his way, and he almost tripped over it.

"Sorry 'bout that, sir. Maybe if I had just a few coins in it, you know, just to stabilize it."

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. "Fine," he said, materializing a handful of pocket change and tossing it into the cup. "That should do it."

"Blessed day to you, sir. Hope you find what you need."

"What I need," Crowley muttered once he was a safe distance away, "is your filthy arse out of here for good."

* * *

It started to rain on his way back to the bookshop, and by the time he reached the front door (and made sure the sign reading BECAUSE OF UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES, CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE was still in the front window), it was pouring down. Crowley held the small paper bag over his head uselessly, and got wet anyway.

Aziraphale wasn't on the sofa. "Angel?" Crowley called, thinking he might have retreated to the bedroom. "I'm back!"

Then he heard . . . water running. In the kitchen. What was that about?

He found the angel at the sink, attempting to wash out the soup pot. "What are you doing? Give me that!" He snatched it away, and Aziraphale looked hurt.

"It needed doing," he said, in a hoarse whisper.

"If it needs doing, I'll do it! Go! Go lie down, and I'll bring you your tea and medicine in a jif." There were dark shadows under the angel's eyes, and his face was deathly pale. Crowley was really starting to worry now.

"Bring . . . my book?"

"Which one?" They were stacked on the end table, and Crowley wasn't about to lug five thick books down the hall along with the tray.

"Top."

"All right, fine. Just go! G-Someone knows you need the rest."

Aziraphale looked as if he were about to say something, but then he thought better of it. He shuffled slowly down the hall to the bedroom, his slippers making zip-zip noises on the thick carpet.

Right. First things first. He finished scrubbing out the pot, dried it, and put it back in the cabinet where he had found it. The empty soup bowl sat on the counter, already washed and dried. Crowley reached up and put it away, and then put the kettle on to boil.

Now. Directions. He opened the medicine packet and stared at one tiny page of very tiny writing. No matter; Crowley had invented the concept of fine print, and his eyes were sharp as any predator's.

_Two pills every six hours, fine. I can do that. No alcohol-well, he won't feel like drinking for a while yet. When he's better, maybe we'll go for a drink. I hope to . . . Someone . . . this works._

Ten minutes later, he brought the tea and the two pills into the bedroom, book tucked under his arm. Crowley had seen bricks that weren't as thick as this tome. How could anyone sit and read something that was six hundred bloody pages long?

"Your tea," he said, setting it on the bedside table. "Medicine," the pills beside it, "and your book." That, he laid gently in the angel's lap, since dropping it on him might have broken both his legs.

Aziraphale looked up and smiled warmly, mouthing "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. I'm gonna go watch a movie with a car chase and a lot of explosions."

"Stay?" The word was barely audible, but Crowley heard it, and saw the anguished face that accompanied it.

Why the heaven had he agreed to this? Why hadn't he just taken off when Aziraphale told him he could? It was too late to run out on his sick friend now. Bugger it all.

Crowley dropped into the chair and sighed. "What d'you want me to do? Sing you a lullaby?"

Wordlessly, the angel handed over the book, holding it open to the spot where the bookmark had begun to slip down the page.

"All right, fine. Which page?"

A shaking hand pointed to the top of the left-hand page.

"Right, then." Crowley sat back and began to read about the adventures of a boy wizard in a school of magic. It was actually pretty interesting. He read three chapters before glancing over and noticing that the angel's eyes were closed, and his breathing was even and deep. The tea was gone, and so were the pills. Hopefully they would do some good.

Crowley carefully slipped the bookmark into the spot where he'd left off, laid the book on the bedside table, and put the teacup in the sink on his way to the television. He found a crime drama on his first try, and watched it until he, too, fell asleep, exhausted from a long day of unexpected caregiving.

* * *

This went on for the next three days. Crowley didn't sleep after that first night; the angel slept enough for the both of them. The medicine made him drowsy, though at least it did seem to be helping that wretched cough.

Crowley left the flat only once, to get more soup. He didn't see Peter in his usual place in front of the shop, and maybe that was a good thing. However, he didn't dare hope that the man was gone for good. All the same, he kept a few small bills in his pocket, just in case.

On the fourth day, Aziraphale left his bed and shuffled his way out to the sitting room, where Crowley was watching a movie based on one of the novels about the boy wizard. Not the one they'd been reading; an earlier one.

"The movies aren't as good as the books, you know," he said, in a voice that was almost back to normal. "They leave out all sorts of things-"

Crowley grinned and patted the sofa cushion beside him. After a moment, the angel came around and joined him.

"How far on is it?" he asked.

"They're fighting dragons," was Crowley's reply.

"Oh, I love the dragons!"

"Yeah. Fine. Ssh!"

It was during the Yule Ball scene that Crowley felt a weight on his shoulder. He glanced over and saw Aziraphale slumped against him, head resting against the demon comfortably. It was almost cute.

Crowley stayed put until the movie was over, and then he gently laid the angel out on the sofa and spread the tartan blanket over him. He turned the television off and made some tea.

But something was wrong: the tea tasted off, somehow. What was worse was that every time he swallowed, he felt pain in the back of his throat.

"No, no, no, no, nooooo! I can't be sick. Demons don't get sick!" Maybe if he gave his body a stern talking-to, it would abandon this foolish idea of illness and get back on track. Or maybe what he needed was a good night's sleep. But how?

He went into the bedroom, changed the sheets (from boring white cotton to more boring white cotton, but at least they were clean), sprayed disinfectant on every surface he might possibly have touched (which was quite a few), and miracled into existence a pair of black silk pajamas. Wrapping himself up tight in the bedclothes, he laid his head on the pillow and prayed (to Whom, he wasn't sure) that he would wake up perfectly fine and completely disease-free.

* * *

The first thing Aziraphale noticed when he woke up was just that: he woke up. He couldn't remember falling asleep, and this certainly wasn't his bed. When had he-

The film.

They'd been watching a film together, hadn't they, on the telly? He remembered that much. Wait, where was Crowley?

"Crowley?" he called out tentatively, and oh, it felt good to have his voice back. "Are you here?"

No response. Maybe he'd gone out to buy more medicine. They'd been running low. Well, then. He'd just sit and wait for him to return. Maybe he'd even read some more of the book, now that his head wasn't bothering him so much.

And then he heard it: a faint cough, coming from . . .

"The bedroom," he said, and made his way there. Sure enough, Crowley was huddled under white sheets, his eyes closed, shivering. He looked like he was buried in the snow.

The demon coughed again and muttered, "Bugger."

"Language!" Aziraphale chided him.

Crowley cracked one eye open. The yellow iris was so bloodshot it looked Halloween orange. "I hate you."

"I did say that you didn't **have** to stay."

"What was I supposed to do, leave you alone?"

"You should have known."

"Oh, I should have known? What should I have known?"

"Anything that could affect me could hurt you, too. We're basically the same."

Crowley grunted something vaguely negative and tried to bury his head under the pillow.

"We're almost out of medicine. I'll have to go and get some more."

"You up for it?"

"I think so. I'm feeling much better. Maybe not a hundred percent yet, but I'm . . . mmm . . . at least ninety-four."

"'S it still raining?"

Aziraphale pulled back the shade and glanced out the bedroom window. "Doesn't look like it. Er, d'you want me to get you a ride home?"

"Want your own bed back, do you?" The demon had given up trying to burrow under the pillow and had flipped over on his back.

"Oh, no, I've had quite enough of it for a while. I just thought that you might be more comfortable in **your** own bed."

"Can't go home," Crowley muttered sleepily. "Plants will eat me."

"What was that, dear?"

"The plants. Will eat me."

"Your plants will **eat** you?"

"That begonia I brought 'ome last week. She's trying to start a rebellion. If I go home now, they'll gang up on me and leaf me to death."

"Maybe I'll drop by and have a word with them. Nip it in the bud, so to speak."

Crowley sat up and gave his friend a scathing look. "That was terrible! Even for you."

"Sorry. Just trying to, um, lighten the mood." He smoothed the sheets over the ailing demon and miracled himself some clothes for the first time in over a week.

Then he noticed the pile of rumpled linen in the corner. Aziraphale had a laundry hamper (although it got little to no use on a regular basis), but it looked as if Crowley had either not known it was there or missed it altogether. "Did you change the sheets?"

"Hmm?"

"I said, did you change the bed sheets?"

"Oh. Yeah. They were all . . . germy. Boring, anyway. You need new ones."

"What for? They hardly ever get used."

Crowley had no reply for that. But his expression spoke volumes, volumes that, if they had been in the shop, Aziraphale would have kept under the counter and sold with plain brown wrapping.

"You just stay here and rest, dear. I'll be back before you know it."

"You missed the end of the movie, you know."

"Don't worry," Aziraphale said, with a smile. "I know how it ends."

* * *

It wasn't a bright sunny day. The sky was overcast, the air was heavy, and it felt like rain was on the way. They could do with the rain, though: it had been such a dry summer.

"Good morning, Peter!" Aziraphale called out.

The man stood up and straightened his ragged clothing. "Mr. Fell! Good morning to you, sir! Glad to see you up and about! How are you feeling?"

"Oh, much better, much better." A sudden cough tore its way out of his throat, and he amended, "Still a bit of congestion, I think. Unfortunately, my friend seems to have caught my cold. I'm off to his place to water his plants and pick up some more medicine from the shops."

"His turn, eh? My best to both of you, sir." He sat back down and shifted his collection cup closer to him.

"Oh. Right." Aziraphale reached into his pocket and pulled out a note that was folded up in the corner. He tossed it into the cup and went to wait for the bus.

Peter smoothed it out and examined it. Shock and surprise exploded across his face. "Fifty pounds! God bless you, sir!"

"God bless us all, Peter."

At that exact moment, the bus came screeching around the corner and skidded to a halt five feet away from where Aziraphale was standing. He ran to catch up with it, giving Peter one last wave as the bus doors closed.

Peter waited until the bus was out of sight and then he said, "Well? Successful test or what? Managed to infect an angel **and** a demon. I've still got it, Red."

"You still do, old man." A stunning redhead in red leather stepped out of the shadows. "I still have to talk to the others, but as far as I can tell, you're in. I'm sure we can make room for a fifth."

"Pollution can go to part time. Now that everyone's recycling and reducing their carbon footprint, there isn't so much for them to do anymore."

"They won't be happy about that."

"Tough. I was here first."

"I have to ask, old man: why now? Why come out of retirement now, after so long away?"

Pestilence smiled, showing three rotten teeth. "Three words, love. Antibiotic. Resistant. Bacteria. I'm going to have **such **fun with those."

"Good to have you back with us."

"Thanks for hearing me out. The others wouldn't take my calls."

War grinned and slapped her fellow Horseperson on the shoulder, raising a cloud of suspicious-looking dust. "My pleasure, old man. That's what friends are for."


End file.
